M^{emphis In Dismay by Jacob Sandock}

A trip to the Beale Street Music Festival goes wrong for all the right reasons. . .

The Beale Street Music Festival is now under the heady influence of Corporate America and dumbly referred to by politically correct hillbillies as "Memphis In May," and twelve hours after the Foo Fighter's ended this year's festivities with a rage inspiring set amidst thunder and rain in front of about four-hundred remaining mud people at the Budweiser Stage-a fitting finale during which my associate The Russian was fleeced of his vodka flask and his Vans hat by a young, gypsy grifter named Shane-I bolted awake in the back seat of the Nissan and became instantly aware of the fact that our departure was more than just a leisurely drive back to Indiana after a fun and music-filled weekend Down South; The Russian pushing 90 MPH in a crowded 65 zone and B.Z. alert with coffee in the passenger seat, both of them white as ghosts and staring ahead intently with Modest Mouse blasting through the speakers. . .

We were escaping Memphis, that much was clear; making a mad dash for the Arkansas state line, bolting out of town as if one of us, most likely myself as the one passed out in the back seat, still caked with mud and with welts on my head, had served and then tarred and feathered the Sheriff's daughter the night before in front of a large post-concert crowd in the middle of Beale Street.

And this type of departure was to be expected. We are after all, my associates and I, a haggard crew of Hoosiers with varying combinations of tastes for prescription drugs, mood inhibitors of most kinds and tequila, and additionally armed with belligerence skills only attainable by frustrated 30-year-old tourists hailing from repressive, one-newspaper towns who've arrived harboring premeditated thoughts of how to best heckle Chaka Khan, Jerry Lee Lewis and Journey; and Memphis-we discovered-is a proper, Southern city too consumed with its own weird and lasting undercurrents to endulge or even tolerate anyone else's. There was trouble from the start…

Day One

Upon our Friday morning arrival we went out to the balcony overlooking our host's apartment courtyard for respite from the spawn-of-Beelzebub fiancé-a dumb blonde with an English major (a dangerous combination) who'd scowled in our direction at first sight and immediately asked The Russian why he wore glasses with no lenses-and thereby stumbled upon very good seats to an intense dual in the foliage below between our host's cat and an overprotective Mockingbird; the bird dive-bombing the cat again and again while sqwakling loud chirpy taunts.

"They do this all the time," explained our host as he came out to the balcony to bring beer in bottles and join us in avoiding his fiancé, "That bird is a fucking nuisance. It even dive bombs us sometimes."

"Why not just shoot the damn thing?"

I was not shocked to hear The Russian say it, there is little Viktor can say or do these days to surprise me further. He is a top-notch associate, but also a drug fiend and a natural born antagonist; if you make any claim in his presence, such as "my eyes are brown," he will most likely debate you and win.

"That's a Northern Mockingbird, it's the State Bird," said the host, "do you know what they do to Russian Yankees in Memphis who shoot the state bird?"

"And, more importantly," said I, "do you know what they give the Jew boy accomplice of a Russian Yankee who shoots the state fucking bird? Two years, easy . . ."

"Jesus. Who said anything about shooting? I'm just talking about darting the pecker. I got the blow gun out in the trunk," replied Viktor with enough of a slur to key me in on the fact that he'd recently taken the last Lorazepam and that it would soon be in full effect. Indeed, three hours later I found him sprawled out on our host's futon wearing nothing but boxer shorts and with a spelunking flashlight mounted to his forehead. He opened one eye meekly, stared at me and said meekly, "I like fish."

He was semi-coherent by the time we arrived later that night at the Budweiser Stage-on a huge grassy area on the broad bank of the Mighty Mississippi-for one of the few musical highlights of the weekend, the smooth white-boy R&Bisms of Philadelphia's G. Love and Special Sauce. As G. sang "This Aint Livin" to a mega-crowd of befuddled teenage consumers, we drank vodka and rum heavily out of flasks and taunted the non-dancers and, later, during "My Baby Got Sauce" Viktor came alive and riled up a few nearby and sloppy drunks into a short-lived mosh pit. But the mood was not right and, frustrated by the failure, he began to tap dance fiercely in defiance of the dead and confused masses. We-my associates, our host, his fiance and her homely sorority sisters-then made our way to the 'other side of the tracks' to see longtime festival participant George Clinton and The Parliament Funkadelic.

Packed in like sardines, the Black and the White of it all finally forced together in this depraved watermark of a city, we waited over an hour for George to appear and just as he strode onstage a fight broke out behind us; two crazed drunken females, one white and one black, flailing fists, grabbing for clumps of hair and spitting wildly at one another, both of them screaming "Bitch!" "Cunt!" and "Motherfucker!" After a few moments taking in the action, the group of strangers nearest the melee separated the women with some difficulty and then scolded the two for picking such a bad time to expel the results of hundreds of years worth of mounting frustration and racial disharmony…It was stinky, dude, stinkier even than forty minute sets by groups like Indigo Girls, Collective Soul and Styx.

The Russian wandered off in anger at some point and-thanks only to his lime green sweatshirt and the beam of light emanating from his forehead-we spotted him on Beale Street at 4 a.m., going from group to group, stranger to stranger and demanding that, "By God," someone sell him a .22….

Day Two

Lord knows what horrible insults we might have directed at poor old Jerry Lee Lewis or what kind of weird racial spat might have erupted from an integrated audience during the set of up-and-coming R&B singer Anthony Hamilton had the second night of performances not been cancelled by rain.

We went instead back to Beale Street and put to good use the fact that Memphis bars, apparently, do not employ bouncers. At Flying Saucer, the lead singer of a college band sang "Sweet Child O' Mine" badly in front of the seated masses; The Russian and I both fell instantly in love with her and began to compete for her favor inasmuch as guys riddled with tequila and prescription drugs and incapable of actual speech are able. I banged on the table with my mug and shouted, "I love you, Xena," while The Russian-now wearing swimming goggles-took the more direct approach and danced techno on top of a table in front of her. But her cool nonchalance drove us both to the brink of desperation and during the set break we our entire party was kicked out by the manager after The Russian broke several glasses and I made an impassioned and drunken public declaration of the upcoming release of the movie Van Helsing.

"People! He is Van Helsing. He is the first person to kill a vampire in 100 years… he is a Republican…and he's coming soon to a theater near you."

Day Three

The earth had turned soft from the proceeding day's rain and we were caked with mud by the time the Foo Fighters ended the festival on an extreme high note. We were riled up, wanting more, with no place to go except Beale Street and delirious from vodka and moshing in the cold rain. We made the long walk out within throngs of annoyingly satiated young Tennessee hillbillies and hippies; myself declaring to all passersby (in the subdued manner with which one peddles vegan burritos to those exiting a Phish show), "vegetarian lambchop McGriddles" and "nipple readings, $2…or palm, whichever-you know-feels right at the moment…" The Russian made solicitations of his own, declaring, "Take the quiz…which is worse, Communist or Jew?" and "looking for a .22 so I can shoot my ex-wife," but he became agitated as our declarations were dismissed by all with mild indifference. Then, as we passed the long line of port-o-potties-a veritable Desolation Row-Viktor ran suddenly ahead of our group and began to shoulder-first fling himself with great force into random port-o-potties. We savored the moment as, seconds later, an armed-to-the-teeth Budweiser Security Guard exited one of the potties that had just been jolted; he, seething in anger and confusion and-with the excrement of mere citizens splattered all upon him-looking for something to shoot but seeing only a fleeing Russian far in the distance.

Back at Beale Street, Viktor-still salty over the earlier loss, during the Foo Fighter's finale, of his flask and hat to a gay gypsy street kid with black fingernails-became further enraged when the manager of Flying Saucer kicked our party out for the second night in a row after being told by our hostess that I'd been drinking despite not having shown her my license-which was indeed true; I'd unwittingly given my I.D. away in a pack of Merits to a beggar named Winston the night before.

"Do you know who this man is," Viktor demanded of the manager, speeding up the man's resolve. "He is Van Helsing! He's the first person to kill a vampire in 100 years…" I was actually hoping for at least ten or fifteen seconds to spare inside the place so as to quickly snort the Adderall I'd just crushed on the table with my mug, but it was not to be. As the manager grabbed my arm and lifted I wished I'd brought the blowgun (so as to dart The Russian when needed) and then wildly snorted what I could while in the act of rising…at which point the man finally realized what I was up to and snarled, "well I'll be damned." He released my arm and brushed the thick line of pink powder off the table with his hand, pointed to the exit and said flatly, "Get out."

Everyone left quietly and with haste, thinking that the police might be called in to settle the score; to taze and incarcerate everyone involved in the matter...but I knew better and-like an ejected baseball manager-I got my money's worth. I'd already learned during my brief time in Memphis that on this wild street at this time of year anything-and I mean anything-goes, as long as it in no conceivable or possible way has the potential to lead to the ultimate and all-out Battle of The South; that coming dark day when the lingering Memphis undercurrent will rear its ugly head and flow freely on Beale Street in lieu of Budweiser, when The Civil War will pick up right where it left off. Nobody wants to see that happen, especially so the Memphis Police and the manager of an establishment sitting pretty in the thick of it all. He endured my charade as I made my way out leisurely and in increments, stopping in the doorway to smile at him and toss my rolled-up dollar bill on the floor. "It's okay…really," I said, "it's prescription stuff. I'm just allergic to capsules, that's all."